Sam's Beginning: IYR Prequel
by Mandy Kay Miller
Summary: The story of how a sociopath named Sam became the leader a sophisticated international Yeerk resistance. Told from his point of view, read more horror stories from the most twisted sociopath to live. T for language, violence
1. Frodlin

It was foolish. Frodlin knew that.

Here we were, him weighing his options and me, indifferent. I knew I won. He would make this as painless for himself as possible, but no matter the outcome, I won.

((I will kill you, human,)) he spat.

_Will._

((Now now, Frodlin, don't be hasty,)) I cooed inside of my own mind. He could read my thoughts, yes, but I could also sense his. I was not in control. I could not page through his memories like a collection of Edgar Allen Poe's most twisted works. But we did share a brain, and a lot of his emotions he didn't bother trying to hide from me. Besides, it was of little use. I knew he was dying, so I knew he was anxious. ((Your anger comes from the fact that deep down, you now know the truth.))

((And what is that truth, human?)) he retorted.

((That I am not the real prisoner here. You are.)) I paused and let him mull that one over in his slimy, slug brain for a moment before continuing. ((You, a slave of Visser One all these years. You have been bred to be part of Visser One's goals. A servant and now, a martyr.))

Frodlin didn't speak. He had never thought of it that way before. It was probably not true. It didn't have to be. I just had to make him believe that it mattered, make him angry at his own people. I just had to keep him from pulling the trigger in his - my - right hand.

((How does it feel, Yeerk? How does it feel to be the bitch of Visser One? Are you proud of yourself, listening to her every beck-and-call like some common whore? What did you ever do for yourself? And what do you have to show for it?)) Nothing. ((And now you want to kill me. Why? Is it for you, or is it that last single act you have to show your owner how easy it was to manipulate you?))

((Stop playing mind games, human. I could kill you.))

_Could._

He let my eyes rest on the gun. He was contemplating it, too, but he was weak, and he wasn't bothering to read my thoughts anymore. He couldn't. I would fight him long and hard until he used his last ounce of strength. No, he just had a decision to make.

I was not afraid of that gun. I knew that he could blow both of us away right now. Why not? After all, he was going to die anyways. If he blew my head off, it would be suicide. And that way I wouldn't survive to tell the world about the Yeerk invasion. It's what a loyal Yeerk would do if they were starving to death. Save the rest of the Yeerks from being found out. But none of them had infested _me_ before. I was a weapon they could not harness for their own use. I was not a bitch like Frodlin.

((You think I don't know exactly what you are?)) I demanded.

((What am I?))

((You are a coward. You have no pride, no dignity. You have no actions that you make yourself. At least I still have my own thoughts and sympathies. You've sold all yours out and adopted those of Visser One. Who's being controlled here, Yeerk?))

He was, but not by Visser One. Me, manipulating his thoughts. Leading him down a road he'd never been, never wanted to go down, had no reason to. It probably wasn't even true.

((You have no idea what I've been through,)) he told me.

((I do. You know, Yeerk, that I have also had my world stripped away from me. But I kept my pride.))

He paused. ((Human,)) he ventured. ((I would kill you.))

_Would._

((Except...)) I prompted.

((Except you have the same spirit, the same power that I've strived for. That is a coveted thing. That, I will not kill.))

((If you leave now, I will give you a quick and painless death.))

It was brilliant. The Yeerk had every power over me imaginable, and I had convinced him to let me kill him. Worse, I'd convinced him to put himself at my mercy. And I would surely not kill him. I would do worse.

And all the time, he could have tried to read my thoughts. Even if he didn't succeed, he would probably have sensed that I had a plan. But he didn't even try, feeling frail and worthless. That, too, was my doing.

As he exited my ear, I curled my fingers for the first time in three days. The last time he'd left to feed, and then only for minutes – up to an hour, perhaps – at a time. Now I was free forever.

He fell to the floor and stood there, motionless. He was waiting for me to kill him. Yeerks are sightless, hearingless, all-around senseless abominations, and I was sure he didn't hear me set the gun down on the desk and look for a container. I couldn't find anything with a lid, so I emptied the cup on my desk that held a bunch of pens and pencils. They rolled around, free on my desk as I bent down and trapped that pathetic mess of goo beneath it.

((Human,)) he said, surprised, alarmed. Frightened. He did not go on; there was no need to. We both knew what I was doing.

"You should have learned by now never to trust your enemies. Now you've proven just how much of a fool you are."

((Who's the coward?)) he demanded of me. ((You are the lying rat who-))

"Save it, Yeerk. Maybe what I said was all a lie, maybe it was true. But the only thing that really matters in life is who has the upper hand. And you just lost it."


	2. 1,000

I locked the Yeerk in a pencil box to writhe around as he starved to death. My excitement was electric. With a dorky grin plastered to my face, I spun around in anxiety, unable to stand still. I couldn't decide what to do next, but with adrenaline pumping, I felt like I had to do something exciting to celebrate this orgasmic feeling of victory. My sparkling moment, my glory and joy, was in the kill.

He moaned and begged with me to let him go. Coward. I never let him hear me beg as he did. I was stronger than him, and this was my proof.

But joy always fades, and after a few minutes, I needed more. Black shirt, dark jeans. Tennis shoes. _Comfort,_ I thought. _It must be comfortable._ I threw some essentials into a backpack – pen and paper, a knife, the gun. Some spare pairs of socks, wallet, and brass knuckles. Cell phone charger, the remaining cigarettes I had in my desk, and four lighters. At the last moment, I grabbed a ski rope I had in my closet - the product of too much mischief.

The motor of the garage door started up. I muttered a few profanities as I glanced out my window. A red Neon. My mom.

She was always trying to tie me down and take away this ecstasy, always trying to get me to stop. She had been on my case ever since she found the rabbit's head in my dresser seven years earlier. It was a wild animal; it's not like I was after peoples' pets. Besides that, it was a hobby that kept me busy, out of trouble with the law. Since then I desired to move on to bigger game.

But I'm not stupid. "Getting away with murder" is synonymous with "impossible" for a reason. Though I felt a rush for the kill, I would not survive confined in a prison. Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with that problem right away; the Yeerk did not feel my desire for blood, so he had calmed down my nerves for the duration of my infestation. Now I was back, bloodlust and all.

_"Hi, my name is Sam."_

_ "Hello Sam."_

_ "I'm... well, I'm a sociopath. It's been three years and ten months since my last petty kill."_

_ Clapping._

I chuckled at the thought. A support group for people like me was a ridiculous thought. We would all try to kill each other. Besides, there are only an estimated 18 serial killers in the country at any given time, and we don't hang out. There's no reason to; we tend to be antisocial.

18 seemed like a high number. My colleagues were good at hiding… then again not all of them spark national attention in the media. Maybe ten of them were already in prison. I briefly considered what kinds of lives they lead. Some space their kills out significantly, maybe only killing one person each year or two. Others, once per month or more.

I wasn't technically a serial killer yet, not "a person who murders three or more people over a period of more than 30 days." I'd dabbled in dismemberment and dissection of animals… dogs, rabbits, even a swan once, but had not murdered anyone. But I had always known it was in me. I had always been thirsty and known only a human's life could quench my thirst. The opportunity just hadn't come up yet for me to take a drink.

"Baby, I'm home!" The bitch's muffled voice carried up the stairs and through my door. In one fluid movement, I lunged towards my backpack and grabbed the knife. She was going to get in the way. _Kill her_, my instincts growled.

But I was still on my Frodlin high, and I knew I couldn't kill mother. Not now. There was no plan to do it, and I couldn't operate without a plan. That's how people get thrown in prison.

I set the knife down and took a deep breath. Reached for a khaki blazer in my closet and threw it on over my black v-neck shirt. My hands rushed through my hair in a panic. Deep breath. Sprayed on a little cologne.

She opened my door slowly because it was unannounced. "Sweetie?" she called softly, looking through the crack between the door and it's frame. I turned to her and smiled, which was her permission to enter.

"My, you look handsome!" She entered my room and grinned at me, put her hands on my arms and shook her head. "Sam, where are you going?"

"I have a date, mom." I made sure to include a usual teen's disgust at their parent's interest in their love life.

"This early? It's 5 o'clock."

I turned away from her proud gaze and grabbed my backpack, then tossed the heavy lump into my closet. It was my version of nervous fidgeting. This would have alerted a keener mind that I was up to something, but mother was as stupid as she was idealistic. "My date's at 6; I have to leave at 5:30."

"I was going to make pizza."

That was one good thing about mother: she made everything. Mom believed that boxed, canned, and frozen foods were an atrocious affront to mankind's health, and so there was never a frozen pizza inside our house. She made everything from scratch, and it was almost always delicious. Unfortunately, I didn't have time for her nonsense.

"Will you save some for me?"

"Aw, of course, honey." Her eyes displayed a kind of vulnerability that made my hands twitch. I hated the pet names, the "honey" and "sweetie" and "baby." They were all put downs, making me into someone who was soft and unable to accomplish anything. Someday I would show her who her "baby" really was.

She smiled sweetly and touched the side of my face. Her thumb ran over a small portion of my hair a few times as she looked at me in that sickening way. This was torture. I was a recovering alcoholic at a frat party.

I turned my head and one of her hands fell to the side. "Mom, please, I have to finish getting ready."

She replaced her hand on the side of my head and tilted it down, so that the top of my head was facing her. Kissing it firmly, she made a loud "muah!" sound. "I know. Good luck."

"Can I take your car?" I asked.

As she walked towards the door, she replied, "keys on the kitchen counter." I reassured her with a smile as she closed the door.

Exhaling, I looked at my backpack, then at the slug covered in a cup on my desk. Lucky she hadn't seen it. Lucky she didn't notice my fidgeting, or notice the clanking backpack and ask what was in it. Way too lucky. I realized the rest of my escape plan had to be meticulous.

I opened my window, removed the screen, and dropped my backpack down one story into the yard. It clanked when it hit bottom, but I knew she wouldn't hear it. She would be too wrapped up in her cooking.

As I scanned the room for anything else I might be forgetting, my phone rang. It reminded me to grab a charger, and I did so while answering. "Hello?"

"Sam, dude, are you coming to Matt's tonight?"

I couldn't prevent the grin from filling my face. This was perfect.

"Of course!" I replied. "I'm coming with Jared. We might be a little late."

"Okay, cool. I need a beer pong partner."

"Just don't start before 11, and I'll be there," I vowed. This was a great alternate story. My mom would think I was on a date, the guys would think I was at a party, and I knew of another couple stories to pull. When there are conflicting stories, people believe nothing.

If I only told my mother I was on a date, and she found out I wasn't on that date, she would have no choice but to believe I was up to something else and lying on purpose. However, if there were three or more conflicting stories in circulation, everyone would simply be confused and resign to not having any idea what happened. That was the goal: confusion and resignation.

"Great, see you then."

"Bye."

I hung up and dialed Jared, my best friend for more than ten years. He was a watered-down version of myself – my personal diagnosis was that of a psychopath, but not a sociopath. A psychopath exhibits antisocial behavior and believes actions are amoral; a sociopath does these as well, in addition to lacking all social conscience. Put simply, a sociopath is a social psychopath.

It's only fair to mention that not all sociopaths are killers, or feel the need to kill. Some simply lie habitually, or manipulate people relentlessly. Many never get caught; many go undiagnosed. In fact, the average person is on good terms with three or more sociopaths. Think about who you know and get back to me. What three people in your life are manipulating you?

Jared and I had a great friendship, because we helped each other out. We both lied with ease, and did it because we knew the other would return the favor. Please understand, we were not covering each others' backs because of "kindness." We did it knowing it would benefit us in the future; knowing that, if I lied for him when he needed it, he would do the same for me when I needed it. This was the best arrangement two crazy kids could hope for.

"Sam, what's up?"

"Jared, I need you to show up at Matt's party tonight."

"I was already going."

He sounded very mellow. Probably just finished a joint.

"I need you to swear that you brought me with you. I need you to convince other people at the party that they saw me, and were just too drunk to remember. Make up stories, be convincing. Break a glass and tell everyone I did it; _prove_ in their minds I was there." I knew he could handle this. He'd always been an excellent cover.

"Where will you be, man?"

"The world needs to believe I was at that party," I insisted. "Just do it."

"All right," he mumbled. But I wasn't done.

I was leaving, and once Jared realized I was gone for a couple weeks, he might decide it's not worth keeping up the lie. After all, he lacked social conscience, so there would be nothing to make him continue the lie. Unless I made it beneficial for him.

"I'm going away for awhile," I said, "But if you keep everyone convinced for two months, I'm sending you a thousand dollars."

"Really?"

"Keep them convinced. I'll make it worth it."

"Thanks, man."

I looked at my watch. I had twenty minutes to get out of there before mom started getting suspicious. "Look, I have to go. Be there by 11."

"I was gonna show at 10. Is that ok?"

"That's fine. In fact, that's good." The more apparent overlap with my "date" the better. "And Jared? It was just you and me. I did not have a date tonight, or anything else going on. I just went from school to home, hung out until you picked me up, and we rode to Matt's house. Got it?"

"Yeah man, you know I got your back."

"Thanks, I owe you."

"A thousand bucks."

"I'm counting on you."


End file.
